Marnie Piazza

A Day in the Life

My day-to-day life isn’t quite what I pictured it would be as a married 30-something stay-at-home mom.  It’s not bad at all, but it’s a lot stranger than I imagined, and it starts a lot earlier in the morning than I’d hoped.

Today started at 3:00 am.  My five year old, Jacob, wandered into our bedroom and asked to get in bed with me.  My husband drowsily evacuated to our son’s now empty bed and Jacob snuggled in with his little feet against my back.  We fell back to sleep peacefully.  This differed greatly from the night before when he joined me.  That time he wandered in and said something that I heard through my dreams as “My finger hurts like my head.”  I decided that was too weird to acknowledge so I told him to get in my bed and be quiet.  When I snuggled my whimpering son, I realized he was soaking wet.  He had actually said “I don’t know why I am wet” and had been woken up by a pee accident.  So we dealt with it and eventually got back to sleep.  But, last night was much easier than that.

The real morning rush started at 6:30 am.  I got up and checked the backpacks, gave cheerios to my early rising older son, Alex, and got organized for the bus.  Then I realized I would have to wake Jacob if he was going to make it onto the bus.  He was asleep with his butt up in the air and his face snuggled into the sheets, and I can’t wake him when he looks like that.  So it became a drive to school day.

When he woke up on his own, I gave him his breakfast and left the room to take a shower.  When I came out, I found out that my older son had refused to put on a kids’ show because he wanted to see the Yankee game highlights on Sports Network.  This resulted in Jacob screaming and whining, and Alex talking to him in a bossy and condescending voice that alarmingly resembled my angry voice.  I diffused the situation and finished dressing in relative peace.

After I got them to school, I went home for some multitasking.  I was multitasking because I wanted to finish my chores quickly, and then spend an hour on our deck reading my book before the after school rush started.  But the plan failed because I ended up organizing the boys’ books, a necessary task because we’d lost two library books in the past two weeks.  Then the gutter repair man rang the doorbell while I was on the phone with the pharmacy while also on the toilet.  Then I had to return a broken sprinkler, continue trying to find a pharmacy that had children’s liquid Zyrtec in stock (I didn’t succeed) and get some groceries.  I got home from doing my errands and after some final organizing, emailing, and laundry folding, I was ready for the deck.  Then I remembered the groceries, which had been sitting in my trunk for over an hour.  I managed to put the milk away about a minute before bus arrival time.

The afternoon with the boys was generally peaceful and pleasant.  I finally got some time on the deck, though with Jacob and a Pokemon sticker book instead of my own book.  That was fine with me though.  I’ve spent two years hearing a close mom friend tell me that her son speaks a foreign language that deadens her mind when he gets going on Pokemon, but I actually don’t mind the topic.  Some of the characters are cute, and I can hold my own talking about things like their evolution and fire vs. water types.  It must have something to do with the fact that I like Lord of the Rings, Chronicles of Narnia, and Star Wars (but in case you’re thinking it, I did NOT play Dungeons and Dragons as a youth.) 

The real weirdness starts again at bedtime.  Jacob decides to air his every grievance.  He whines and cries over the fact that I told him he can’t pick his nose.  Then he hides under the bed in order to pick his nose.  He whines and cries because I won’t put a band-aid on a scab just above his eye (there was no way to get a band-aid on it without taping his eye shut and it didn’t need one.)  He whines and cries that he is bored.  When I suggest he won’t be bored if he is sleeping, he whines and cries some more.  He finally tosses and huffs and puffs himself right to sleep with one last disgruntled whine.

At least he gave me something to write about tonight.

Special Status

I recently had one of those moments when I questioned the whole stay-at-home mom gig.  I’ve been fairly satisfied with it lately.  I have time during the day to blog, read, create art, see friends, take care of our finances, and get chores done without multitasking quite so much.  When the kids get home, after school activities take over the next hours, sometimes until close to bedtime.  It’s often a frenzied pace just to get everyone fed and clean and ready for bed.  And I go to sleep shortly after the boys do.  I don’t really know when I’d squeeze in an actual job, to be honest. 

Though that’s not to say I don’t second guess my path often.  Sometimes it’s on the basis of needing a second income for luxuries, college savings, and less pressure on my husband, sometimes on the basis of lack of personal fulfillment and wasting my education, and sometimes on the basic of contributing more to society as a whole (an argument made in the book “Get to Work: . . . And Get a Life, Before It's Too Late,” by Linda R. Hirshman, that our country would be a better place for women as a whole if more educated women didn’t opt out of being leaders in the workplace.)

Recently, the reason I wondered if I should get a job and sign the kids up for after school care was being deemed “not special enough” by my son to qualify as the special guest for his turn as the class “Super Star.” Why aren’t I special enough to read a story during his week long celebrity turn in the class?  It’s because I already come in once a week to help with writer’s workshop in his class.  And I am the one who always makes it to class music concerts, poetry readings, writing celebrations, and everything else that goes on in the daylight hours while my husband works.  So by being reliable, available, and a willing volunteer, I have lost my special status to him, at least in this instance.

I wish I could say my son had an epiphany that I actually was special enough after all, but that’s not the case.  I went in for fifteen minutes, read the book while the kids ate their snack, and that was that.  The whole thing really wasn’t that special.  And I would have been pretty annoyed if I had juggled my work day around it.

Patti LuPone Hates My Dad

Last weekend I went to see Gypsy, starring Patti LuPone, on Broadway with my parents.  I had suggested the idea because I knew my mother had liked Patti LuPone since we saw her in Evita years ago.  Gypsy got great reviews, my Dad decided he wanted to see it too, and an outing was formed.

I always liked the spectacle of going to Broadway as much as the shows themselves.  My mother had a job while I was growing up that allowed her to get free show tickets, so we went often.  Some of my earliest memories are those city outings from New Jersey, when the squeegee guys still stalked the cars in the tunnel traffic, Hell’s Kitchen and Times Square were still seedy and a little scary, and the prostitutes in plain sight were certainly not charging men like Eliot Spitzer thousands of dollars.  Then once we arrived at the theatre district, the crowds, the old world theatres, the overpriced candy during intermission, and the occasional star sighting in the audience were always as much a part of the drama as the actual show.  So even though subversive and witty Avenue Q is probably more my current taste in shows than a classic revival like Gyspy, I was excited to go.

After meeting for a quick lunch of Nathan’s franks, we went to the theatre and settled in for the show. We listened to the list of banned activities – cell phones, texting devices, and cameras.  Once the show started, it was good, not earth shattering, but entertaining.  It was apparent that most of the audience was there for Patti LuPone and not necessarily for love of the show Gypsy.  When she first strided onto the stage, it was clear that a true diva had entered.  She got a standing ovation for just showing up, though her singing did deserve it.

But the real excitement came during the last act before intermission.  Patti LuPone was singing, and it was an emotional number during which her character was angry and defiant.  Then the young woman next to my father got out her digital camera, which I’d noticed she’d been fiddling with earlier, held it up just a bit, and took a glaring and spectacularly disruptive flash photograph.  Patti LuPone, without breaking character, sent a death stare directly at my father.  I thought I’d imagined it, since the look did fit in with what was happening on stage. 

The curtains closed and the lights went on for intermission.  My mother turned to me and said exactly what I’d been thinking, that Patti LuPone had glared at my father and thought he took the offensive photo.  Then we all rushed off to the bathroom to beat the crowd.

When we returned, our section was abuzz with activity, and there was a security guard guarding my dad’s seat (without him in it) and the one next to it.  While we were in the bathroom, Patti LuPone had apparently peaked out of a side door and lividly pointed to the seat where she saw the flash.  Other audience members around us had confirmed the location, and there we were.  And that’s how I ended up defending my dad’s honor to several rabid Patti LuPone fans and members of her security detail.  It didn’t take much.  I just told them that the seat belonged to my father and that the woman with the camera was in the next seat.

The next standing ovation was when the young blond woman with the camera returned to her seat and was escorted out by security guards.  By then, I had started to feel sorry for her.  After all, anyone who is a true New Yorker has done something incredibly rude, aggressive, and annoying in the midst of a crowd at some point in their life.  I would have been appeased with a reprimand and a deleted photo.  But at least my dad’s name was cleared of inappropriate photo taking.  We’ll just have to hope that no security guards are watching when my parents pocket the rolls at their local Charlie Brown’s salad bar. 

Now I wonder how I could reach that blond chick; I really need that photo for this blog entry.

Sheep in the Meadow

We recently had a family outing to the city.  We go with the boys somewhat regularly, but it’s usually a one stop affair – drive to the Museum of Natural History, the Bronx Zoo, or South Street Seaport to see the tall ships, then drive home.  This trip was more ambitious and more like my old city life, when I’d walk, cab, and walk some more from place to place for hours.  We took the train to Grand Central, walked over to Times Square, met several friends at the giant Toys 'r Us there, then took cabs up to Central Park to get some fresh air before dinner on the East side and Dillon’s Candy Bar. 

In a huge departure from my hyper safety-conscious self, my husband, our boys, and I crammed into the back seat of a cab and didn’t even look for the seat belts.  In the course of an hour or so, I had morphed into a city mom who relies on a lightweight Maclaren stroller instead of car seats and trusts that the cabs don’t crash.  It was fun to be in city mode. 

When we got out of the cab at Central Park, we needed to wait for our friends who were in another cab a bit behind us.  We were standing on the edge of the park, along the stone wall that encircles it. 

My eight year old said, “Look, sheep.”

Without looking, I answered, full of city folk savvy and knowledge, “Oh, there’s a place in Central Park called Sheep Meadow.”  I assumed he saw a sign pointing towards it and that was why he was talking about sheep in the middle of Manhattan.

My husband, Chris, looked at me like I’d lost my mind.  “There are no sheep in Sheep Meadow, you know.”

I did know this, very well.  I had spent many spring afternoons sunbathing and relaxing in Sheep Meadow with friends.  It’s a giant grass field packed with people, not sheep.  In fact, Chris and I had been there with a large group, well before we were dating, and had an infamous Frisbee game there.  Infamous because I can’t play Frisbee and somehow threw one backward and into a young child’s head.  Since no one thought I had managed to throw it behind me, Chris, who was facing forward, got the glare from the mother.  I also believe it was one of the spots where I realized that Chris might be cuter than my boyfriend at the time.  And it served as a rest stop during the months when I decided I could roller blade (I was better at roller blading than Frisbee throwing, but not by much.)

But back to the sheep.  I finally turned around and saw my son peering over the wall and into the park.  And I heard the bleating of sheep, as well as smelled an unmistakable animal scent.  There were sheep in Central Park, though not at Sheep Meadow.  We were just outside The Central Park Zoo by the children’s section, where lots of farm animals were roaming around an enclosure.

“See, sheep,” Said my son. 

“I can’t believe you thought there were sheep in Sheep Meadow,” Said my husband.

You can never presume to know New York City too well.

Wearing Sunglasses While Painting

Yesterday I felt like I couldn’t get life right.  Questions and concerns were ricocheting inside my head.  Were my children enriched or over-scheduled?  Did I need to find an extracurricular interest for my little one, like gymnastics or a clay class, to match my older son’s sport commitments, or just drag him to his brother’s practices less often so he could have unstructured time?  Was my youngest son’s stuttering a part of normal age-appropriate development or caused by constant interruptions and general rushing?  Fairness, proper priorities, and a sane schedule seemed out of reach. 

Compulsively comparing my older son’s soccer and baseball schedules with my younger son’s potential art and gymnastic schedules, while cross-referencing these with my parents’ babysitting availability and the feasibility of cloning myself, was not helping.  So I decided to do a pastel painting outside in our front yard before the boys got home from school.

It was a serene day filled with the sounds of birds calling and small wildlife crunching through the undergrowth.  My favorite tree, a small and delicate one that holds its own against our towering oaks and maples, was in bloom with vibrant pink blossoms.  I set up my easel in just the right spot to capture the angle and elegance of the branches.  Then I realized that I was in the sun.  When I’m in the sun, I wear sunglasses because I don’t like to squint.  But wearing sunglasses, even my expensive designer ones with presumably high quality lenses, would change the color and tone of what I was painting.  So should I paint wearing sunglasses?

Somehow that decision seemed to reflect something about my life at that moment.  I could go forward with the painting, either with a slightly imperfect view, or with a bit of discomfort and glare.  Or I could pack my supplies back up, try again in the early morning light, and hope that the tree was still blooming and I could still steal the time.  I decided to stick it out.  I wore the sunglasses part of the time, and part of the time I didn't.  After a while, as I became absorbed in the process, I was naturally doing what felt most comfortable without even thinking about it.  I even smudged my glasses with pastels and ignored it.  And the end result:  a painting of which I was proud, even though it wasn’t perfect, and a couple of hours happily spent.

So I wonder, is that the way to live life in general?  Do what feels right at a particular moment without too much deliberation, even if your choices include options that are imperfect, uncomfortable, or possibly just plain wrong?  I’m pragmatic enough to know that perfection is out of reach, so maybe I’ll give it a try.  I’ll paint and live life wearing sunglasses if it feels right, or take them off and deal with the squinting.  Maybe I’ll even try the rose-colored ones for a change.

A Good Kick in the Head

I have boys who don’t tell me much about their day.  I know the trick of asking specific questions instead of a general “How was your day?” to elicit some details, but in the end, all I get are the bits and pieces that they feel like sharing.  And if they decide to share while the water is running and I can’t hear them, or at 9 pm when they should be asleep, I try to readjust my expectations and catch as much as I can.

Given this lack of after school daily details, our usual conversation when they get off the school bus is about what we are doing that afternoon, which often involves discontented grumblings over my typical answer “relaxing at home” since they prefer play dates and carnivals and trips to the toy store.  We also cover what they are allowed to have for snack and other such pressing concerns.

Yesterday, in a huge break from tradition, my boys got off the bus screaming and laughing and flew into my arms, bursting with news.  I couldn’t wait to hear what had happened at school to make them so enthusiastic.  And the news was:  “Mrs. G kicked Jakey in the head!  She kicked him in the head!  In the head!  He had to go to the nurse!”   

I know Mrs. G. well, and she is a loving, dedicated, and exceptionally skilled kindergarten teacher who taught my eldest and is now teaching my clearly uninjured youngest, along with apparently kicking him in his head.  I was in no way horrified by this news.  In fact, I thought it was as funny as the boys did. 

It turns out that Jacob was sitting on the carpet with the other children, Mrs. G. had to walk over him to get to something, and in doing so she kicked him in the head.  He was sent to the nurse for ice, and while there, talked to another boy, who asked his name and why he was there.  Jacob, who has a bit of a speech delay, apparently piped up quite clearly: “My name is Jacob Piazza and my teacher kicked me in the head.”  The other boy happened to be a classmate of my second grader, established this was his little brother, and promptly reported back to him that his brother had been kicked in the head by his teacher.  My second grader, a logical and clear headed boy, did not believe this story.  Then my sons compared notes on the bus and had a rollicking ride home.

And so it becomes one of the childhood stories we’ll remember.  Sorry Mrs. G, but for all your good work with my sons, this is the one we’ll be talking about years from now.